


Small Cells and Fibers

by sevenfists



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-05
Updated: 2007-12-05
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenfists/pseuds/sevenfists
Summary: Tuesdays were finger-painting days. Frank made sure to wear his oldest pair of jeans, because even with his full-length apron and his constant reminders that paint belongs on paper and not on clothing, he always ended up with tiny, multi-colored handprints all over his clothes. There wasn't a thing he could do about it, so he just wore pants from 1995.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For mcee. Thanks to ethrosdemon for beta work.

Tuesdays were finger-painting days. Frank made sure to wear his oldest pair of jeans, because even with his full-length apron and his constant reminders that paint belongs on paper and not on clothing, he always ended up with tiny, multi-colored handprints all over his clothes. There wasn't a thing he could do about it, so he just wore pants from 1995.

"Mister Frank!" Antonio said, holding up his painting. "I drew a shark!"

Antonio's shark looked kind of like a purple slug, with weird orange growths coming out of its head. "It's beautiful," Frank said.

"It's not beautiful! It's scary! He was swimming out to sea and the man came and it eated him," Antonio said.

"You're right," Frank said. "It's beautiful _and_ scary."

Antonio beamed.

Over by the easels, Marcus started rubbing paint into Starla's hair.

"Paper, not people!" Frank said sternly.

After painting time there was snack time, and life skills time, and outside time, and nap time, and then it was time for the day students to go home. There were two groups of kids: the day students, who came for five hours, and the regular students, who needed looking after all day while their parents were at work. Most of the kids were day students, and after they left, things quieted down a lot, and Frank got to pay more attention to the kids who were left.

His current project was teaching Julianni how to tie her shoelaces, because they seriously came undone about every ten minutes, and Frank was starting to worry that he'd throw out his back from bending over to re-tie them all the time.

"The rabbit goes through the hole," he said, sitting next to her on the carpet.. "Um, or is it the sparrow? Darn."

"It's the _rabbit_ ," Julianni said, rolling her eyes.

Frank grinned. "Okay! See, you've got it, kiddo, you don't need me anymore. Can you show me how you tie it?"

"Like this," Julianni said, and tied the ugliest bow Frank had ever seen, but it looked like it would hold.

"Awesome!" he said. "Go show Miss Lucy, she's gonna be so proud of you."

Julianni ran over to show Lucy her shoes, and Frank flopped down on the carpet and sighed. The kids ran him ragged every single day; by 4:00 he was wiped out and ready to go home, and then there were still two more hours to go. He lifted his left arm and looked at his wristwatch. 5:30. He had to get out of there, eat, and go to band practice, and he'd switched shifts with Alex tomorrow, so he had to be at work by 7:30—

"Knock knock," someone said, and Frank sat up, kind of embarrassed to be found lying in the middle of the floor.

It was Hot Artist Dude, standing in the doorway and looking ridiculously beautiful, as always. Frank ran a hand through his hair, cleared his throat. "Um. Hi," he said.

Hot Artist Dude grinned, hands in his pockets. "Hi."

"Oh. Um," Frank said. "I think Constance is—I'll go find her."

"Thanks," Hot Artist Dude said, still smiling.

Frank, cursing himself for being so goddamn awkward all the time, got up and went outside, where Carmen was playing hopscotch with some of the kids. Constance was out there, her pigtails flying.

"Constance!" Frank called. "Your dad's here!"

"Daddy!" Constance shrieked, and bolted inside. By the time Frank followed, Hot Artist Dude had scooped her up and was wiping a smudge of dirt off her face with his thumb.

"Uh, sorry about that," Frank said. "They were playing in the sandbox earlier."

"What? No, it's fine," Hot Artist Dude said, and laughed. "Kids are meant to get dirty, you know?"

"I made a picture, Daddy," Constance said, clinging to Hot Artist Dude's neck.

"Oh yeah? What's it a picture of?" he asked.

"We did finger-painting," Frank said. Constance's picture was drying on one of the easels; he unclipped it and handed it to Hot Artist Dude.

"It's a platypus," Constance said.

"Look at its bill! That's a great platypus," Hot Artist Dude said, and kissed her forehead. "You ready to go, monkey?"

"Okay," Constance said. "Bye, Mister Frank!"

"Bye, Constance. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" Frank said.

"Bright and early," Hot Artist Dude said. "Take care!"

"Bye," Frank said lamely. The door closed behind Hot Artist Dude and Frank sighed. Another day gone, and he still didn't even know Hot Artist Dude's name. It was like one of those old movies that Jonas was always watching, the black-and-white ones where everyone cried, even the men.

"Frankie's in loooove," Lucy sing-songed.

"I hate you," Frank said.

***

Frank had a list of all the things he knew about Hot Artist Dude.

1\. He was hot.  
2\. He was an artist of some sort.  
3\. He loved his daughter.  
4\. He drove a beat-up Subaru.  
5\. The Subaru often had a fat black lab sitting in the back seat.

"I don't even know his name," Frank moaned, sitting at the bar with Ray after band practice, his beer bottle pressed to the side of his face.

"You could just ask him," Ray said.

"But then he'll know I'm interested!" Frank said.

"I thought that was the idea," Ray said.

"I don't even know if he's into dudes! He's got a kid, man, all signs point to heterosexuality," Frank said. He knew from talking to Constance that her mom wasn't in the picture, but he had no idea what Hot Artist Dude's preferences were.

"Only one way to find out," Ray said.

Frank closed his eyes and moaned some more. The bottle was cold and damp and sweating onto his skin.

"You're ridiculous," Ray said.

"Do I need to remind you how long it took you to ask Christa out?" Frank said. "Remember how Bob had to threaten your guitar? You have no legs to stand on, Toro."

"That was more than a year ago!" Ray said.

"That doesn't change the fact that you're a pussy," Frank said.

Ray was right, though: Frank had to man up. Martha wouldn't let him look at Constance's school records, so he would have to do it the hard way.

Life was kind to him for once, though. On Thursday, Constance forgot a macaroni collage in her cubby, and Frank ran out into the parking lot, hoping that Hot Artist Dude hadn't left yet.

"Hey, wait," he called. Hot Artist Dude was buckling Constance into her car seat, and he turned at Frank's voice, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses. "Mister, uh," Frank said, slowing to a walk as he got closer.

"Gerard," Hot Artist Dude said.

"Um, what?" Frank said, blinking.

Hot Artist Dude grinned. "My name's Gerard," he said. He held out his hand.

Frank stared dumbly for a moment before he recovered his senses. "Oh, uh," he said, and tucked the collage under his arm so he could shake Gerard's hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm, uh. I'm Frank." Gerard's hand was callused and warm. Frank's own palm was sticky with the remnants of apple sauce, and he wished he'd had the foresight to wipe it on his pants first.

"I know," Gerard said, still smiling.

Frank's insides crumbled with humiliation. He bit his tongue and tried to remember why he'd come outside. "Uh, Constance forgot her collage," he said, handing it to Gerard. _I'm Frank_? He hadn't been so awkward since high school. "Sorry, it's just. If we don't clear out their cubbies every day, the stuff really piles up."

"No, it's fine," Gerard said. "It's great, actually. Thanks for bringing this out, I'll add it to the collection on my fridge. You guys do a lot of art projects here."

"Oh, it. You know, it keeps them busy," Frank said lamely. It was early autumn, and the leaves were just starting to turn, orange and gold mixed with summer green. Frank stared at them so he wouldn't have to make eye contact with Gerard.

"I think it's great," Gerard said. "Kids are so creative, you know? I think it's great that you guys encourage them. It's why I decided to send Constance here, actually."

"Daddy, time to go!" Constance said, kicking her feet.

"Oh. Right," Gerard said. "Duty calls. Watch your hands, monkey," he said to Constance, and shut the car door. "Anyway, thanks."

"Yeah, no problem," Frank said. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Uh, so, have a good evening. Um."

"Yeah," Gerard said. He smiled at Frank again. "You too."

Frank went back inside and locked himself in the bathroom for a few minutes to jump around and shake his arms and generally freak out.

Hot Artist Dude's name was _Gerard_.

"Why are you smiling so much?" Bob asked at band practice that evening, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"No reason," Frank said, still beaming.

He spent the next few days with his heart beating like he'd too many energy drinks. He was worse than a fourteen-year-old girl. On Friday, he sat outside with Tricia for their post-lunch cigarette break and tried to blow smoke rings in the shape of hearts. It didn't work out too well. He thought about maybe painting his fingernails pink but decided that would probably be taking things too far.

"What's wrong with you," Tricia said, in her usual monotone.

"I'm in love," Frank said.

"Yep, that'll do it," Tricia said.

The band played a show at Lava's that night, and Frank went crazy, swinging his guitar all over the place and almost decapitating Jonas, who spent the rest of their set clutching his bass protectively. Frank didn't care. Everything inside him was hot and raging and full of joy. He ripped out a fast series of chords and then flung himself into the screaming crowd, letting their hands bear him up.

"Please send our lead singer back to stage," Ray said into the microphone, "we need him for the next verse."

Frank landed back on stage, shaking his sweaty hair out of his eyes. He grabbed his own microphone and shouted, "We're William Tell's Demise, motherfuckers!"

The crowd roared.

"You're a maniac," Bob said after the show, when they were chilling at the bar with some complimentary beers.

"It spices up your life," Frank said. "Like hot sauce." He smacked a kiss onto Bob's cheek.

"Frankie just gave you his cooties," Jonas said to Bob.

"Shut up and drink your beer," Frank said, grinning.

***

He was reading a book to Constance on Monday when Gerard came to pick her up. "The soup went up to Martha's brain instead of down to her stomach!" Frank said, tracing the path of the letters with his finger.

"Why did it do that?" Constance asked.

"I don't know," Frank said. "We'll probably find out if we keep reading."

"Oh," Constance said. She scratched her nose. "My dog likes alphabet soup and we feed it to him and then he can talk."

"Oh yeah?" Frank said. "What does he say?"

"Not a whole lot, honestly," Gerard said, and Frank almost had a coronary right there.

"Daddy!" Constance said happily, jumping out of her seat and wrapping her arms around Gerard's leg.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people," Frank said, clutching at his chest with his free hand. He was a high-strung person. There was nothing wrong with that.

Gerard grinned. "Sorry. Did I scare you?"

"Just a bit," Frank said.

"Sorry," Gerard said again.

"I'll probably forgive you," Frank said.

"Oh, I hope you do," Gerard said, and something about the way his voice sounded had Frank blushing and setting the book back on the shelf.

On Wednesday, he was taking a smoke break in the parking lot when Gerard pulled up in his Subaru and got out of the car. Frank hastily stubbed out his cigarette against the concrete barrier he was sitting on.

"I didn't know you smoked," Gerard said, coming closer, his eyebrows raised.

Frank rubbed his forehead. "Yeah, sorry. I've quit four times now but it never seems to stick. I, uh, I try not to let the kids see me doing it."

"So that's why you're out in the parking lot, I take it," Gerard said.

"Nah, I just like the scenery," Frank said. "Asphalt turns me on." Then he clapped a hand over his mouth, hearing what he'd said.

Gerard just laughed though. "Good to know," he said. "I'll keep it in mind."

Frank didn't know what to say. Was Gerard making fun of him? He coughed into his fist. "Um. Constance is probably inside. I can, uh, I can go look for her. If you want me to."

"I'll help," Gerard said. His eyes were crinkled up at the corners, and he had his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, his hands hanging loose. Frank's pulse jumped, quick, out of his control.

On Friday, he had playground duty with Alex, and they were sitting outside when Gerard came through the back door, sunglasses pushed up on his head. He grinned at Frank and waved. Frank waved back, trying not to seem too eager.

"Honey, you are _so_ pathetic," Alex said.

Frank groaned and rubbed at his forehead. "Okay, Alex, so tell me, since you're so wise in the ways of gay sex—what would _you_ do?"

"Throw him on the floor and fuck him 'til he can't see," Alex said.

"Mister Alex, what does 'fuck' mean?" Julianni asked.

"Oops," Alex muttered. "Um, it means 'veracity,' and you can't use words if you don't know what they mean, remember?"

"Okay," Julianni said, pouting.

"Have a good weekend," Gerard called. Constance was hoisted up on his shoulders, happily kicking her feet against his chest.

"You too," Frank called back. He tugged on the sleeves of his hoodie.

" _Pathetic_ ," Alex said.

***

Frank spent the weekend running errands and pointedly _not_ thinking about Gerard, and spent most of the next week doing the same thing, except then Gerard showed up on Thursday afternoon wearing a Black Flag t-shirt and jeans that should have been illegal, and Frank literally felt his mouth start to water. It was kind of embarrassing.

"Hi," Gerard said, hooking his sunglasses onto the collar of his shirt.

"Hey," Frank said. "Constance is, um, I think she's playing hopscotch, let me just—"

"I actually. Do you have a minute?" Gerard asked.

Frank blinked, scratched his arm. "I, yeah. Sure. What's up?"

"I was wondering if, um." Gerard laughed nervously. "Sorry, I'm just—I'm not real good at this. Would you like to get coffee with me sometime?"

"What?" Frank said, certain he'd misheard.

"Sorry, you're right, it's a bad idea," Gerard said. "Forget I said anything."

"No, that's not what—did you really just ask me out?" Frank asked.

"Yes?" Gerard said.

"Oh," Frank said, and bit his lip to keep from grinning like an asshole. "I really can't until the weekend, but. Yeah. That'd be great."

"Okay," Gerard said. "It's a date." He smiled at Frank and went outside to find Constance.

"Oh my God, what just happened!" Lucy said, coming over with a jar full of dripping paintbrushes tucked in the crook of her elbow.

"He just asked me out. On a _date_ ," Frank said. He felt kind of numb, like somebody had hit him over the head with a board and his skull was still ringing.

"Seriously?" Lucy asked.

"Seriously," Frank said. In his head, he was skipping through a field of daisies with the sun shining down on him, like in The Sound of Music or something.

He sang "Ruby Tuesday" on his walk home from work, and got weird looks from Mrs. Park as he went past her store hollering, "Who could hang a name on you!"

At band practice that night, Ray said, "You're up to something." His hair bobbed suspiciously.

"I'm really not," Frank said, playing through the bridge of the song they were working on. "What's wrong with this chord progression?"

"You're supposed to be playing F major," Bob said from behind his kit.

"How the fuck do you even know that," Frank said.

"I think we're losing sight of the important things here," Jonas said, "namely that our Frankie has fallen head over fucking heels in love."

"That's not true," Frank muttered, flushing, but it was too late by then: Ray's ears had perked up, and he set his guitar aside, leaned forward intently.

"Have you been holding out on us, man? Is this the dude from your work?" Ray asked.

"Gerard," Frank said, "and we're just getting coffee. It's not a big deal."

"Frankie's gonna get some," Jonas yelled, and danced around shaking his ass until Frank threw a guitar pick at him.

Friday afternoon, Gerard said, "How does 10:00 tomorrow morning work for you?"

"It sounds perfect," Frank said, and Christ, he was starting to think he would never be able to stop smiling.

When Frank arrived at Starbucks the next morning, Gerard was already sitting at a table by the window, blowing on his coffee. His sunglasses were on. He waved Frank over.

"Hi," Frank said, unwrapping his scarf.

"I got you a latte," Gerard said. "I don't have a clue what you like, so I hope this is okay."

"It's great," Frank said. "I love lattes." He sat down and pulled the lid off the cup Gerard handed him. "Thanks."

"Hey, I asked you out," Gerard said, shrugging. He shoved his sunglasses up onto his head and smiled at Frank. "How's your morning going?"

"Better now," Frank said.

They spent two hours there, sitting there in the weak sunlight while people bustled in and out, ordered coffees, talked on their phones. Frank had worried that things would be awkward, but they didn't run out of stuff to talk about. Gerard told Frank about the art gallery that he ran with his brother, and the art he did on the side, and about Constance's recent obsession with marine mammals.

"Yeah, I've noticed her drawing a lot of seals during art time," Frank said.

"It's an epidemic," Gerard said. "My fridge is covered."

Gerard told Frank about Constance's mother, how they'd both sobered up when she got pregnant, and how she hadn't lasted more than a few weeks after Constance was born. "It was ugly," Gerard said. "Pills. Heroin. I don't even know if she's still alive."

"I'm sorry," Frank said.

Gerard shrugged. "Constance doesn't seem to know that she's missing anything, so. That's really all I'm concerned about."

Frank told Gerard about his band, and his mother's cooking adventures, and the way he'd kind of accidentally fallen into teaching, changing his major halfway through college. "I used to want to be in a real band," he said, "like, famous rock star stuff, touring the country, groupies and trashing motel rooms, the whole deal. But I think preschoolers make me happier than being famous would have."

"You're really great at it," Gerard said. "Constance adores you."

"Thanks," Frank said, smiling down at the tabletop.

They finally succumbed to the glares from the head barista and gathered their things. "I want to see you again," Gerard said. "Like. Soon."

Frank bit his lip. He didn't want to seem too eager, but. "I've got band practice tomorrow afternoon, um. But I'm free after that."

"There's an opening at my gallery," Gerard said. "If you—you could come, if you want to."

"Yeah," Frank said, "yeah, I do."

The gallery was in the city, in the East Village. Frank took the subway. He didn't go into Manhattan much; for shows every few weeks, and sometimes for shopping, but he always managed to forget how much he loved the hustle and attitude of the city. There was a reason he'd stayed in New York instead of agreeing to go to Chicago with Jamia.

A skinny guy with plastic-frame glasses was standing outside the gallery door, greeting people as they arrived. "Hi there," he said to Frank. "Food's to the left, wine's to the right, art straight ahead."

"Oh, um," Frank said. "Thanks. Actually, uh. Do you know where Gerard is?"

The guy narrowed his eyes at Frank and then started grinning. "You must be Frank," he said.

"Um, yeah, that's me," Frank said, bewildered.

"I'm Mikey," the guy said, and stuck out his hand. "Gerard's my brother."

"Oh," Frank said, and shook hands with Mikey. " _Oh_! It's, um. Nice to meet you."

"Come on, let's go inside," Mikey said, and ushered Frank through the door. "Gee's been freaking out all evening. I can tell he's nervous because he keeps eating brie, and he doesn't even _like_ it." He stopped by a sculpture of—actually, Frank wasn't sure what it was. "Wait here, okay? Two seconds?"

"Sure," Frank said. There was some sort of creepy blown-glass chandelier dangling from the ceiling. It looked like it was about to come to life and eat him.

"Hey," someone said, and Frank turned to see Gerard smiling at him.

"Hi," Frank said. He was probably more excited to see Gerard than he should have been.

"I'm glad you came," Gerard said, pushing his hair back out of his eyes, and Jesus Christ, Frank was _smitten_.

Frank drank a cup of wine and ate the rest of the brie off Gerard's plate, and followed Gerard around while he chatted with people and dealt with the artist's panic attacks. Frank still thought the sculptures were weird, but the guy had some pretty cool photographs of birds.

"That one's my favorite," Gerard said, materializing at Frank's shoulder.

"Yeah," Frank said. It was a black-and-white photograph of a dead crow, a beer bottle cradled between its bent legs.

"You want a tour?" Gerard asked. "I usually leave the schmoozing to Mikey, he's way better at it than I am."

"I'd love a tour," Frank said.

Gerard led Frank down a hallway toward the back of the building, and then through a door and up the stairs. The entire second floor was one open room, dark except for the streetlights flooding in through the huge windows on one wall. There was a full moon that night, and Frank could make out a cluttered desk, a sofa, paint-splattered canvas on the floor.

"This is our office," Gerard said, "but mostly it's my studio."

"Can I see some of your paintings?" Frank asked.

"No, I just brought you up here to see Mikey's anal-retentive filing system," Gerard said.

"That doesn't sound very exciting," Frank said.

Gerard's grin flashed white in the darkness. "Over here," he said, and started walking toward the windows.

Frank followed. "Are you, um. Are you sure you don't mind?"

"I wouldn't be showing you otherwise," Gerard said. He closed his fingers around Frank's wrist and pulled him in front of an easel. "This is what I've been working on lately."

"Wow," Frank said. It was a portrait of Constance—he could tell that easily, the sweep of her brown hair, the happy curve of her mouth—but Gerard had done something that made her look like she was glowing from the inside. Frank was clueless about art, but he could tell how much work and love had gone into the painting. He said, "It's really great."

"Thanks," Gerard said. "I might give it to her for her birthday."

"I think you should," Frank said.

"I will," Gerard said. His hand settled on the back of Frank's neck, thumb sweeping arcs across the soft skin hidden by Frank's hair.

Frank shivered. He heard one of the floorboards creak, and Gerard's breath hot against his throat, and then Frank turned and grabbed fistfuls of Gerard's jacket and pulled him in.

The first kiss was dry and soft, his lips barely brushing over Gerard's. Gerard inhaled sharply and tilted his head a little, and it got wetter after that, and sweeter. Frank hooked the fingers of his right hand in Gerard's pocket, slid his other arm around Gerard's neck, and he could feel Gerard's heart beating through his shirt. He'd imagined this so many times but it was so much better than he'd hoped, the solid press of Gerard's body against his own.

"Oh," Gerard murmured, his lips moving against Frank's, and he slid one hand up underneath Frank's shirt, splaying across his lower back and spine. Frank held him tighter, dragging his tongue across the roof of Gerard's mouth, and it was great, it was fucking _awesome_ , except then Gerard was pulling back and kissing Frank lightly, wrapping things up.

"I have to leave," Gerard said. He tipped his forehead to rest against Frank's. "It's not—I wish I didn't have to, Frank, but I told the babysitter I'd be home by 11, and I have to catch the train back, and it's—"

"It's okay," Frank said. "Seriously." He pretty much meant it, too.

"Give me your number," Gerard said. "So I can. You know."

Frank punched his number into Gerard's phone while Gerard watched him and played with the ends of Frank's hair. Frank's neck and spine felt hot, and he could still taste Gerard's mouth, the lingering spearmint flavor from his gum.

"I'll call you," Gerard said. He kissed Frank's temple, so sweet that Frank's heart skipped a beat and then throbbed extra-hard in his chest to make up for it.

"You'd better," Frank said.

***

They didn't talk much the next week, aside from inane pleasantries when Gerard came to get Constance at the end of the day, but it didn't stop Frank from feeling like his head had detached from his body and was floating somewhere up near the ceiling. He hadn't done any serious dating since Jamia, and if Gerard wanted to take it slow, Frank was on board with that. He wasn't too worried about it; Gerard was clearly into him. Frank could give it time.

On Saturday, his band opened for Post-Coital Glow at the Banshee. Frank wore his favorite lucky sneakers and his lucky pink sweatband and not a stitch of underwear. The club was packed wall-to-wall, sticky and dim and humid, and when Frank screamed at the crowd they screamed back, surging toward the stage. And they were _on_ that night, so fucking on, his guitar and Ray's and Jonas' bass all perfectly in time over the steady pounding of Bob's drums. Frank's heart was pounding too, gleeful inside his chest.

He spotted Gerard about halfway through the set, during "Nosedive." Gerard was standing by the bar, his sunglasses on and his arms crossed. He was nodding his head along to the beat. Frank's pulse kicked up into overdrive, and he fumbled the next chord, his sweaty palm skidding against the pick-guard.

The rest of the set passed in a blur. They finished up, broke down their gear, hauled everything out to Ray's beat-up van, and Frank's head spun the whole time. He sat on the tailgate with Jonas while Ray and Bob fussed at each other about the drum kit.

"Dude, snap out of it," Jonas said, slinging an arm around Frank's neck.

"I'm snapped," Frank said. He exhaled. It was crisp out, the stars clear in the night sky, and his breath formed a cloud around his mouth, thinner than cigarette smoke. "You got any cigarettes?"

"I told you I quit," Jonas said.

"Oh yeah," Frank said. "I'm gonna—are we hanging around here for a bit?"

"Yeah, I want to see the Glow's set," Ray said.

"Okay," Frank said. He'd had a few drinks and he felt warm and happy, a little light-headed. "I'm gonna go inside and get a beer. You losers coming?"

"Uh. Maybe in a bit," Bob said, glancing at Ray.

Frank rolled his eyes. "Come on, Jonas, you can't abandon me in my hour of need."

"I sure can't," Jonas said, and pulled Frank into a headlock.

They went back into the club. Post-Coital Glow was setting up, and the floor was packed, people laughing and dancing and sloshing beer all over the place. Frank got separated from Jonas in about fifteen seconds, his curly head disappearing into the sea of sweating faces. Frank didn't bother trying to go after him; Jonas hooked up with one hipster girl or another after a good three-quarters of their shows, and Frank had more important things to think about than Jonas' sex life.

Frank fought his way toward the bar, using elbows and his friendliest smile. Gerard was probably long gone, but he could use a beer and a bottle of water, and maybe a place to sit if he could find one. He rested his elbows on the sticky surface of the bar, trying to catch the bartender's attention, and then there was a hand on his shoulder and he turned, hoping but afraid to, and Gerard was there, smiling at him.

"Hi," Gerard said. He slid his hand down to cradle Frank's elbow, his fingertips warm against Frank's bare skin.

"Oh. Hi," Frank said. His ears and the back of his neck went hot. He was glad it was dark in the club so Gerard couldn't see how he was blushing. Gerard had finally taken off his sunglasses, and Frank stared at the curve of his eyelashes, mesmerized. "Um. I saw you earlier but I didn't know if you'd stick around."

"Of course I stuck around," Gerard said. He was raising his voice to be heard over the crowd, but the Glow wasn't playing yet, so Frank could hear him fine. "You were amazing."

"Thanks," Frank said, and grinned. He turned his body toward Gerard's, angling himself in, a clear invitation if Gerard wanted to take it. Frank hoped he would. Gerard's hand on his arm was warm and suggestive, and Frank wanted it, desperately, every molecule in his body eager for more of Gerard's touch.

"I didn't know you guys were playing," Gerard said. "I know a guy in the Glow and I come to his shows sometimes, but I didn't know I'd see you here tonight."

"Surprise," Frank said, laughing. "We're not, uh, we're not great, but it's a lot of fun, so. It's a nice change from playing with four-year-olds all day."

"I thought you were amazing," Gerard said again. His hand was still on Frank's elbow. He ducked his head, a sweet, bashful gesture that flipped Frank's insides right over, and then his other hand was on Frank's hip, his thumb brushing over Frank's waistband.

Frank knew what was coming. He remembered the shape of Gerard's mouth like it had happened yesterday, or ten minutes ago, and he leaned in eagerly, sliding his nose along Gerard's jaw and then catching Gerard's mouth with his own.

It was intoxicating. Frank hovered on his tip-toes, leaning into Gerard to keep himself upright, and Gerard was so warm and _present_ , the hand that wasn't on Frank's hip creeping up to splay across Frank's ribcage, palm against skin. It made the back of Frank's neck prickle, going hot and and then cold. It was hard to breathe. He slid his tongue across Gerard's lower lip, grinning into the harsh sound Gerard made.

"I bet you're real noisy," Frank said, kissing the soft place beneath Gerard's jaw.

"You can find out," Gerard said. He already sounded kind of breathless.

A loud burst of feedback from the stage startled ten years off Frank's life. He lost his balance and tilted backward, stumbled into the person behind him. "Whoa, sorry," he said, catching the guy's scowl, "sorry, man. I tripped."

Gerard pulled his sunglasses off his head and started fiddling with the earpieces. "Um, maybe this isn't the best place," he said.

"You're probably right," Frank said. He took the glasses away and hooked them onto the collar of Gerard's shirt, then leaned in to kiss him. "Follow me."

The Glow started playing as Frank led Gerard toward the back of the club, their hands clasped together. The bass pulsed through the floor and up through his feet and legs, making his dick throb harder, eager for Gerard's touch. He slid his free hand over his hard-on, and—fuck, _fuck_ , he was so ready, and this was Gerard with him, Gerard following him to the bathroom to (hopefully) commit all kinds of public indecency.

The bathroom was blessedly empty, everyone out watching Post-Coital Glow, and Frank herded Gerard into the first stall and locked the door behind them. Gerard blinked, used his fingers to rake his hair away from his face. His clothes were messed up and his mouth was wet, and Frank wanted to shove him against the side of the stall and just—touch him all over.

"I want to, uh," Frank said, and then his voice cracked and he gave up on talking and just did it: hands on Gerard's shoulders, Gerard's back hard against the chipped metal. Frank mouthed at Gerard's throat and started working on his belt buckle.

"Oh," Gerard said, "oh, Frank, oh _fuck_ ," and then Frank had Gerard's pants open and his hand fisted around Gerard's cock, his thumb rolling over the slick head.

It all happened too quickly after that, Frank's drunken, lust-addled brain only able to capture snapshots, bewildered by the reality of Gerard there with him, Gerard's head tipping back, Gerard's hands gripping Frank's shoulders while he moaned recklessly and came all over Frank's fist.

Frank pulled his hand away and licked at his palm, tasting. He was mostly curious, not trying to tease, but Gerard muttered something under his breath and dropped to his knees, tugging at Frank's pants.

"Can I—do you mind?" Gerard asked.

"I can't believe you're even asking me that," Frank said.

"I just want to make sure," Gerard said, opening Frank's jeans, Christ, that was his _tongue_ , his mouth sliding open over Frank's dick, and Frank was going to lose his fucking mind from this. They'd have to carry him out of the club in a straitjacket.

Gerard sucked Frank's cock slow and messy, moaning like Frank was doing him a favor, and he stared straight at Frank the entire time. Frank was convinced his brain cells were melting, and the rest of his body, too; he was halfway convinced that by the time Gerard was done with him, he'd be a useless, quivering puddle on the floor.

After, Gerard held onto Frank's hips and pressed kisses to his belly while Frank gasped for air and tried to remember his own name.

They laughed softly while they cleaned up, stealing kisses and groping each other. Frank pulled away after a while, reluctant, and fastened his belt. "I should get back," he said. "Ray's supposed to be giving me a ride back to my place."

"I promised Mike I'd watch his show," Gerard said. "At least part of it. You could—"

"Nah, Ray gets pissy if I make him wait," Frank said. He leaned up and kissed Gerard, hanging on to his t-shirt. "I'm assuming you're gonna fucking call me, though."

"I will," Gerard said. "I promise. I'll call you."

"Good," Frank said, and kissed Gerard one last time before pulling away. "Do I look okay?"

"You look like you just had sex in a bathroom," Gerard said.

"So, I look fine, then," Frank said, and grinned.

Gerard rolled his eyes. "Get out of here," he said.

Frank blew Gerard a kiss as he opened the stall door.

On Sunday, Frank woke up, had eggs and toast for breakfast, cleaned his crappy studio apartment, bought a new pair of pants, met Bob for lunch, slumped around the farmer's market poking at squash, and went to the grocery store for milk and Kraft mac & cheese. His phone rang three times: Ray, his mom, Lucy. He got seventeen text messages from Jonas, talking about his latest conquest. In the evening, he ate dinner in front of the television and went to bed early, because he had to be at work at 7:00 the next day.

Gerard didn't call.

He didn't call the next day, either. Or the day after that.

Or the day after that.

***

It wasn't a big deal. Frank couldn't even count how many short-lived hookups he'd had—a few dates, one giddy night, the wait after for a phone call that never came. This wasn't any different.

He had playground duty all week and didn't see Gerard again until Thursday. Gerard met his eyes from across the yard, smiled, raised his hand. Frank waved back. Gerard didn't come any closer, and they didn't speak.

He thought about maybe going over to talk to Gerard, maybe saying, "Hey, what's going on, cold feet? You dropped your phone in the river?" But Gerard has his number; Frank had told him to call, and he didn't, and even if he _had_ by some chance lost Frank's number, he fucking knew where Frank worked. Frank wasn't going to make the effort just to get shot down. He'd had enough humiliating rejections in his life. If Gerard wasn't interested, Frank wasn't going to press the issue.

So that was it, then. Frank was okay with it. He had a bad habit of falling hard and fast, getting his heart broken at least once a month. He was a resilient guy. The painful tightness in his chest didn't mean anything, or if it did, it only meant that he should quit smoking a pack a day.

"Quit moping," Tricia said. "That guy's here, don't you want to go say hi?"

"Nah," Frank said, and tossed the red ball back to Macaiah.

Life went on. Ray and Christa had a huge fight and Ray spent a week sleeping on Frank's couch until Christa forgave him. Jonas had a love affair with some twins. Frank's mom invented a new lasagna recipe and made him promise he'd come home for the weekend so he could try it. Frank worked, and played in his band, and sometimes he and Gerard smiled at each other when Gerard came to get Constance. Things were fine.

"Dude, you need to snap out of it," Jonas said, when they were smoking up in the back of the van after they opened for Chincoteague Twilight. "What you need is a mindless hookup. There's this chick, what's her name, Amanda, she's—"

"No chicks," Frank groaned. He flopped on his back, staring up at the van's upholstered ceiling. "No guys, either. I'm done, Jonas. No more."

"You're a melodramatic cunt," Jonas said.

"Yep," Frank said. "Pass me the joint."

Ray yanked open the back door, guitar case in hand. "Hey," he said, seeing them, and then narrowed his eyes. "Is that—guys! Are you smoking weed in my van?"

"Um. No?" Jonas said.

"I swear to Christ," Ray said.

"Frankie's depressed," Jonas said. "He got his heart broken. It's medicinal."

"I hate everyone," Frank said. "Also, my heart isn't broken." Just a little cracked, maybe. It wasn't something he'd admit to himself in the sober light of day.

"If Christa smells that, I'm killing both of you," Ray said.

They got a new kid at work, a little boy with some major behavior issues, and since Frank was the only one who had experience working with emotionally disturbed kids, Martha made him the official AJ Wrangler. Frank spent a whole month following AJ around all day, making him wash his hands and tie his shoes and quit hitting the other kids during recess, and it was so exhausting that Frank collapsed as soon as he got home every night, falling asleep on the sofa if he couldn't make it all the way to his bedroom. He was glad for it. With his head full of music and AJ's issues, there wasn't room for anything else.

Most days, when he saw Gerard's car pulling into the parking lot, he went outside and pretended to be really busy making sure nobody fell off the jungle gym.

Halloween came and went, and then it was time for the annual Thanksgiving puppet show, an event that Frank loved and feared in equal measures. Martha cornered him at the beginning of November and said, "We're doing multicultural harvest festivals this year. I want you to come up with something for the four-year-olds."

Frank groaned. "Can't I just do puppet design again?"

"No," Martha said. "You'll be great. Think multicultural. Maybe you could get Huong to help you do Trung Thu."

"I don't even know what that means," Frank said.

Martha beamed. "It's a learning experience for all of us!"

That was how Frank found himself spending two nights that week reading through a book about international harvest traditions. Trung Thu was a good one—the parents would think it was sweet, and the kids would have fun with the lanterns, as long as Frank could keep Marcus from setting somebody on fire.

Rehearsals started two weeks before Thanksgiving. Frank spent an hour with the four-year-olds every afternoon, trying to get them to hold their puppets straight and quit crawling around behind the stage. It took a while, but Frank managed to whip them into shape, and they all mostly spoke their lines at the right time and moved their puppets in the right direction and sang on key.

A week ahead of time, Frank and Alex stayed for an hour after all the kids went home and printed up sets of invitations: "GREEN TREE LEARNING CENTER presents THE ANNUAL THANKSGIVING PAGEANT, Monday, November 19 at 7:00pm."

"Sweet," Alex said, looking at their clip-art masterpiece.

"You're the next Van Gogh," Frank said.

The night of the puppet show, Frank didn't go home after school. He changed into the slacks and button-down shirt he'd brought with him, and then helped Tricia set up the stage. They were using the same set as last year, but Tricia and Alex had re-painted the entire thing, and Frank didn't think any of the parents would recognize it.

Frank volunteered for door duty and welcomed all the parents, pointed the kids in the right direction for some last-minute rehearsing. He didn't realize what a stupid idea it was until he saw Gerard getting out of his car.

"Shit," Frank muttered, adjusting his tie.

Gerard was wearing a suit jacket and jeans and sunglasses, and he was holding Constance's hand and laughing at what she was saying. Frank stood numbly in the doorway and watched them come up the sidewalk. Gerard paused to brush some dirt off Constance's dress, and Frank's palms started sweating, his fingers twitching a little with the phantom desire to touch.

"Mister Frank!" Constance said, skipping past him into the building.

"Hi, Constance," Frank said.

"She's a little excited," Gerard said. He took off his glasses and smiled at Frank, lopsided. "Hi."

"Hi," Frank said. "The, um. You can go take a seat. If you want. We've got, um. They set up some chairs." He hadn't said so many words to Gerard since the night at the Banshee, and his tongue felt too big for his mouth and too dry.

"Thanks," Gerard said. He didn't move.

"So, um," Frank started, and then couldn't think of anything else to say.

"I'd like to talk to you later," Gerard said. "If that would, um. If that would be okay with you."

"Oh," Frank said. He rubbed his hands on his jeans. "That would. Yeah. That'd be fine."

"Good," Gerard said, ducking his head and smiling for real, broad and happy. "I guess I'd better go grab a seat."

"Sure," Frank said, and then he had to turn and say hello to Xiao-ling and her parents, and Julianni and her grandmother, and by the time he looked up again Gerard had disappeared into the building.

The puppet show went off without a hitch. Frank stood backstage and mouthed the words along with his four-year-olds. Half of them stared at him the whole time, but at least they said the right stuff, and nobody poked anybody else with their puppet. Frank counted it as a success. The parents clapped noisily and took a billion pictures, and Frank could see Martha beaming from her seat at the back of the room. Frank looked at the kids, all smiling and eager in their costumes, and felt a wave of idiotic love for them. On bad days, it was hard to remember why he'd chosen to teach preschool, but on the good days he knew he'd never want to do anything else.

"Thanks for coming," Frank said, after the kids finished. "Next we have the five-year-olds with—what are they doing, Lucy?"

"Newala," Lucy called from backstage.

"The five-year-olds are doing Newala," Frank said, while the parents laughed. He grinned and happened to catch Gerard's eye, and had to look away then, overwhelmed by what he saw there.

He stayed backstage while the five-year-olds performed, instead of joining his kids in the toddler room. Gerard kept looking at him, quick flash of eyes in the darkened room, and Frank's stomach flipped over every time, a giddy twist like free-fall. He didn't know what was happening and wasn't sure he'd be glad to find out. He hoped he would be.

Gerard cornered him afterward, during cookies and punch. "I loved the puppet show," he said.

"Thanks," Frank said. "Constance was really great. She helped keep the other kids in line."

"She's a handful," Gerard said, looking across the room to where Constance was happily eating cookies with Huong and Tabitha. He cleared his throat and took a sip of his punch. "So, um. I'm sorry that I didn't. You know."

"Call me?" Frank said dryly.

"Yeah," Gerard said. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "I got nervous. You probably think I'm a huge asshole now, but I'm just—"

"I kind of do," Frank said. "Think that."

Gerard sighed. "Yeah. I figured. Look, I—it's been a while for me, and I wasn't sure you were that into me, and I freaked out. Okay? I know it was horrible, and I should have said something to you, but I'm emotionally retarded, and I guess admitting it is the first step, and. I'm babbling, sorry. The thing is, I can't stop thinking about you." He winced. "Does that make me creepy?"

"Yes," Frank said, his mouth twitching. "Lucky for you, it's kind of mutual."

"Oh," Gerard said, and started smiling hugely. "So do you mean you—"

"Yeah," Frank said, and then realized they were standing there grinning at each other like complete fools, and he had to eat a cookie to hide how flustered and thrilled he was.

"Would you like to get dinner with me?" Gerard asked. "Like, not tonight, clearly. But sometime?"

"Yeah," Frank said. "I, yeah. I'd really like that."

"Good," Gerard said. "I'm really—Frank, I'm really sorry about all of this, and I promise you, I _promise_ I won't fuck it up again if you give me a second chance."

"Well, if you _promise_ ," Frank said, and then did what he should have done two months ago and asked Gerard for his fucking number.  



End file.
